


About Gods and Sacred Lettuce

by dandelionpower



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, unexpected travelling companion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: Anders bought a ticket to travel first class on a sleeping train from Cairo to Aswan. He had no idea the railway company expected him to share his compartment with a complete stranger. Now he's going to be stuck with the guy for the next twelve hours...





	About Gods and Sacred Lettuce

**Author's Note:**

> The story is based on the prompt no 63 of the WinterFRE 2018 : "I don't want you to stop"

 

Anders waved his deluxe train ticket in a poor attempt at fanning himself.

His train was supposed to be there half an hour ago, and still no sign of it. The temperature soared to a sweltering 40 degrees Celsius.

“Sweet mother of fuck,” Anders cursed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He took a gulp of tepid water from his bottle and winced.

When the train finally appeared, Anders hurried across the platform and to the cars as soon as the controller allowed the passengers to approach.

Compartment number 12 and its air conditioning was to him like an oasis to a lost adventurer in the desert. “ _This trip better be worth it_ ,” he thought, dropping his suitcase onto the seat.

Axl’s quest to find his beloved goddess would make Anders a true god at last, but nothing guaranteed that the woman he came to Egypt to meet would really turn out to be the long-awaited Frigg. After Anders had put a bogus ad online, that woman came forward, claiming to be a descendant of the first Norwegian immigrants of New Zealand. Axl felt “something” when he saw the woman’s photo. That reaction could have been only the work of post-pubescent hormones, but on a hunch, the Johnsons decided to send Anders to investigate. He was the only one of them who could afford a plane ticket to Cairo.

The train cabin compartment was tiny, way smaller than what he expected, but at least it was clean. He only had to pull the backrest of the seat down and it would become a bed. It was not exactly what he pictured as “deluxe”, but it would have to do.  

It was still way too early to go to sleep. The sun hadn’t even set yet, too busy as it was to toast everything in its reach.

Since his shirt sported two aureoles of sweat in the armpits, Anders decided the first step was to get changed before he’d decide how to spend his evening.

He was still bare-chested, selecting a button-up shirt and a tie to go with his gray trousers when the door of the compartment slid open.

“Oi!” Anders protested, pulling the clean shirt to cover his chest like a virgin girl caught during her bath.

“Oh, sorry, mate,” the intruder apologized in European-sounding English, but he did not avert his eyes nor did he leave him alone. The man had long, dark eyebrows still arched in surprise over the edge of his sunglasses and a plaid cap that struggled to keep in check a mass of dark curls. He was wearing a long, black leather coat with several layers underneath. He must have been dying from the heat with such an outfit, but he didn’t appear to be suffering from the heat at all.

Anders hastened to button up his shirt. “I think you’re in the wrong compartment, sir!”  

The man removed his sunglasses, took a step back and looked at the number over the cabin door. “Compartment twelve. Aye, that’s mine.” The collar of a rumpled flannel was sticking from underneath his jacket. He carried a duffle bag on his shoulder and had a black garbage bag in the other hand. The controller must have let a homeless person get on the train by mistake.

“You’ve got the class wrong, then,” Anders insisted. “This is first class.”

“I know. I’m traveling in first class too.” He put the garbage bag to the floor and pulled out a train ticket.

After a quick verification, the ticket appeared to Anders exactly similar to his and he handed it back. “What the hell!? First class passengers are not supposed to be forced to share a compartment with random strangers!”

The stranger in question shrugged in response. “This train dates back to Second World War,” he said. “This cabin is the best you’re going to get.” He gave Anders the once-over. “You can always ask to be transferred to a seat in the third class, but you don’t seem the type, and I’m afraid there will be even more strangers there.” He took off his cap, threw it on the seat, and that was only then that Anders noticed his cabin had indeed a double seat and was meant for more than one traveller.

Unfazed, his undesirable cabin mate closed the compartment door and put his bags next to the window. “I call shotgun on the top bunk,” he declared, knocking on the metal panel over the seats for emphasis.  

Of course… there was a hideaway bed up there as well.

“This is outrageous,” Anders muttered under his breath, shoving his dirty and clean clothes all mixed up into his suitcase.  

“For four hundred Egyptian pounds a ticket, you should have known this wouldn’t be the Ritz Carlton,” the man remarked.

“I paid 1200 pounds for that ticket !,” Anders protested.

“You’ve been hustled, my friend, but don’t worry, I’ll show you the good websites,” he comforted him. “And since we’re going to be stuck together for at least a few hours; I’m Mitchell, by the way.” He outstretched his hand for a shake.  

Anders shook it begrudgingly and introduced himself.

“It’s Scandinavian,” the other commented.  

“What is?”

“Your name.”

“I’m from New Zealand,” Anders corrected, a little colder than he intended. He was on a secret mission, after all, and there were very few people he could trust.   

Mitchell didn’t lose his casual demeanor. “I’m from Ireland. Nice to meet you, Anders.” He gestured toward the part of the seat closer to the window. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“No. It’s your compartment too, as it turns out.”  

“Thanks.”

Mitchell sat down just as the train started moving. Anders decided to do the same and pulled out his phone.

A poster on the opposite wall communicated the free WiFi password, but after the sixth attempt, Anders still hadn’t managed to log in.

Soon, the train was leaving suburban Cairo: its clusters of square houses and forest of television antennas.   

By his side, Mitchell was reading a book opened on his lap, ignoring his presence.

Anders sucked on his teeth.  _Well, this is awkward…_  At a loss for how to occupy his time, he cleared his throat. “So, Mitchell, what are you doing here in Egypt? It’s pretty far from Ireland.”

Mitchell didn’t mind the interruption. He closed his book and put it away. “I have an errand to run for my…,” he hesitated, “boss.” He fidgeted with his fingerless gloves and the rings he wore on both hands. “What about you? You’re here for the pharaohs and the tombs?”

Anders waved in dismissal. “Nah. I don’t care about ancient mummies and such crap. I’m on a kind of errand too… for my brother,” he specified. He would not elaborate, and he hoped Mitchell would return the courtesy by not digging any deeper.

“Let’s hope none of us are running a fool’s errand, then.”

“We’ll see,” Anders replied carefully.  

“Are you stopping in Luxor or Aswan?,” Mitchell inquired.   

“Aswan.”

“Looks like we’re going to be together for the next twelve hours, then.” Mitchell’s expression was unreadable. One couldn’t tell if he was pleased about the situation or not. Given how Anders greeted him earlier, nobody could blame him if he chose to loathe the idea of all those hours in his company.

“I can go to the dining car and give you your privacy for the evening if you prefer,” Mitchell offered.  

Anders shook his head and made an attempt at a smile that probably made him look like he had something stuck between his teeth. “Nah, I’m alright,” he assured Mitchell. Why was he so self-conscious about his teeth all of a sudden?

Nonetheless, Mitchell pulled on the knees of his jeans, stood up and stepped to the door. “I’m going outside for a smoke anyway.”

“Oh, okay.” Anders was strangely disappointed and hoped Mitchell had not picked up on it. Self-consciousness and now disappointment? What was wrong with him?

Mitchell reached inside his jacket for his cigarette case. “Care to join me? Maybe you want to share one?”

Anders was still on his guard somewhat, but he found himself more and more intrigued by his unexpected travelling companion. “Why not? You’ve seen me half-naked already. I guess we can jump to the cigarette-sharing stage without too much damage to our reputation.”  

Mitchell laughed, running a hand in his hair. He had a gorgeous smile: boyish, one of his front teeth just slightly crooked. Under those curls and all those layers was an attractive man; seductive with a hint of hidden darkness. That had to be the root of Anders’ self-consciousness.

Down the corridor, they stepped outside to the platform between their wagon and the next one.

The train picked up some speed as it crossed a plateau overlooking the Nile. The sun was setting on the horizon, over the soft sand dunes. The breeze brushed the pink and violet heads of the bougainvillea trees on the other side of the river. Already, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees and Anders shivered.

Mitchell breathed in the evening air and lost himself in the contemplation of the scenery. It took him several minutes to even remember why they were there and light his cigarette. He passed it over to Anders with a smile.

Neither felt the need to make conversation for a long while, and one cigarette became two and soon three. The awkwardness, however, had dissipated. Anders was never big of a smoker, but sometimes, the company was worth wasting a couple lung cells.  

The train went further into the countryside. In the last lights of the declining day, the villagers took the opportunity of a more comfortable temperature to work in the fields. The smell of fire smoke came mixing with the one of Mitchell’s cigarettes. In almost every field along the train track, the workers had set fire to piles of branches.

Mitchell offered a puff to Anders, but this time, he refused it in order to ask: “what are all those fires for? Do you know?”

“In ancient times, the Nile flooded the valley every year, fertilizing it,” Mitchell explained.  “It’s the only way the Egyptians could cultivate what would have otherwise been only sand and desert. But since they built the barrage in Aswan, the river doesn’t come out of its bed anymore. A lot of farmers don’t have the money to buy fertilizers, so they burn the palm trees and spread the ashes in the fields.”

“Hm,” Anders reflected. “That makes sense.”

“The barrage is also the reason why there are no crocodiles or hippos in this part of the Nile anymore.”

Before Mitchell could anything on the subject of Egyptian fauna, their conversation was interrupted by a railway service employee.

“Masaa’ al-khayr,” the man said.

Anders froze. He didn’t understand a word of Arabic and spoke even less. For a second he was worried the employee was there to scold them for smoking between the wagons.

“Masaa’ an-nuur,” Mitchell replied politely, as if speaking that language was a second nature for him.

The employee then said a string of two or three more sentences which sounded like nothing but noises to Anders’ unschooled ears.

“Shokran,”Mitchell thanked him, the word rolling off his tongue effortlessly.

Anders was impressed. Even though he had the fashion taste of the average delinquent hobo, Mitchell was more educated than he appeared. Cultivated without being sophisticated. A diamond in the rough. “ _The very rough_ ,” Anders corrected in mind.

“What did he say?”

“Something about food,” Mitchell provided. “I gather it means dinner is served in our cabin.”

“Thank god, I’m starving!

Mitchell laughed again, low, almost husky. “I wouldn’t get my expectations too high if I were you,” he said, squeezing Anders’ shoulder in a friendly gesture when they crossed the door back into the wagon. “This isn’t the Ritz Carlton, remember?”

“I will try, I promise!”

Since when this odd and warm familiarity had developed? Probably somewhere between the first and the second cigarette. In any case, it existed now.

 

***

It turned out Mitchell had been right to warn him.

The food was served on what looked dangerously like a hospital tray. The rice had no flavor whatsoever. The roasted chicken, seasoned with thyme, was decent at best. The apricot was not ripe enough to be eaten. Anders reckoned he could knock someone unconscious just by throwing it to their head. He stared at the fruit in reproach, as if the strength of his glare would make it edible if he put enough disapproval in it.

Mitchell wolfed the whole thing down even before Anders finished cleaning the last bits of gluey rice. Anders knew what people said about lean but voracious men ; what kind of lovers they made. Normally, he would have let his mind go there in a heartbeat. With Mitchell, though, his curiosity subsided his lust.  “Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”

The Irishman wiped his mouth with a paper towel and unzipped his duffle bag. He searched through his bundled clothes and when he found what he was looking for, he dropped it in Anders’ lap. “Here is my secret.”

Anders took the book and read the title. “Arabic for Dummies?”

“You were expecting a more exciting secret, perhaps,” Mitchell teased him with a disarming wink.  

Heat rose to Anders’ face. He both hated and loved how perspicacious Mitchell was. He always prided himself on his own hard-to-read, cool exterior, but he suspected his present interlocutor could see right past it, and that he might have found his match there.

He handed the book back to its owner and shifted his attention back to the remaining content of his tray. He still had a plastic baggie. Inside it, what appeared to be a dessert: a slice of brioche bread and a single serving packet of ...something. Except for the brand, everything else was written in Arabic. He tore it open and found a sort of brown jelly inside. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s fig jam,” Mitchell informed him. He had already spread his on the brioche bread and was licking crumbs off his right thumb.  

“Jam for dinner?”

“Yep.”

Anders eyed the packet with suspicion and read the brand out loud. “ ‘Vitrac’. I’m sorry, but that sounds like a horse medication.”

Mitchell chuckled. “You’re a picky chap, aren’t you?”

“I’m not picky. I have standards. That’s different.”

Mitchell took a big bite of the brioche bread and jam. “Hmm, it’s good,” he tried to tempt Anders around his mouthful. “You should try it!”

“I think I’ll pass, thank you very much.”

“Can I have it, then? “

“Sure.”

 

They finished their meal and after the employee came to collect the trays, they headed for the dining car and its bar.

Mitchell insisted on buying Anders a drink, “to apologize for ruining your trip by invading your private cabin.”

In turn, Anders bought him a drink to “apologize for having been rude as fuck.”

They drank and chatted until the bartender had to chase them at closing time.

Anders learned that Mitchell lived in Bristol with friends, but had travelled around the world beforehand. He also confessed his unhealthy obsession with British television; shared that he played several music instruments including trumpet and guitar; and Anders noticed a green sparkle that appeared in his eyes every time he mentioned his native Ireland.

The conversation had been too friendly to be flirtatious, but too revealing to be innocent.

It’s only when they walked back to their compartment that Anders realized he had not tried to use his godly powers on the Irishman ; not a single time. It was almost as if he had forgotten Bragi even existed. That was a strange and refreshing change.

“Do you snore?,” Anders asked, as they were getting ready to go to bed.  

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s good for your girlfriend.”

“It would be… if I had one.”

Anders had been given only half the answer he was fishing for.

“And no, I don’t have a boyfriend either, if that’s what you want to know,” Mitchell added. He had said it in such a casual, conversational tone, it made Anders wonder whether Mitchell’s only goal was to assure him he wasn’t gay…or if he had an ulterior motive.

They settled in their respective beds.

Anders stared at the ceiling for a long moment, which, in his case, was the bottom of his cabin mate’s bed.

Seeking complete silence on a moving train was like looking for peace and quiet in a rock concert. The train cracked and swayed like a pirate ship, eating the rails meters by meters. What if some vital mechanical parts fell off? It was a very old train, if Mitchell’s claim was to be believed.

He genuinely tried to close his eyes and reach out in some inner nooks of his head to grab some sleep, but half an hour later, Anders opened his eyes again with a sigh.

Mitchell heard him. “I’m sorry, I was reading,” he apologized. “Is the light bothering you? I can shut it.”

“No, it’s okay. What are you reading?”

“A book about ancient Egypt rites.”

“Care to read me a bit of it?”

“I thought you were not interested in ancient mummy crap,” Mitchell said in a good-natured chaff.

“I can’t sleep and right now, you’re the only distraction I have. The bloody WIFI is still not working!”

“Fine, I’ll read some to you, then.” There was a smile in Mitchell’s voice and Anders regretted he could only hear and not see it. The Irishman took a deep breath and flipped a new page. “ ‘ _Every year, at the peak of harvest season, the Egyptians celebrated the festival of Min, and_ \- ‘ “

“Who’s Min?” Anders interrupted.  

“He’s the God of fertility,” Mitchell specified. “He’s usually represented holding his huge, erected penis in his left hand and a flail to harvest grain in his right hand.”

“So he’s kind of a horny farmer…”  

“Basically,” Mitchell confirmed, still serious, before he carried on with his reading where he had left off. “ _The Egyptians celebrated the festival of Min. On this occasion, the Pharaoh, followed by a procession of priests, musicians and dancers, came to the temple to make offerings to the divinity_.  _The most important of these offerings was the god’s favorite delicacy: lettuce.”_

Anders’ eyebrows raised. “Lettuce?”

“I’m not kidding. It really says ‘lettuce’, Mitchell assured him. _“ ‘The plant was closely associated with Min; firstly because it grew tall and straight, and was therefore an obvious phallic reference. Secondly, because when a leaf from the lettuce is cut, it oozes a white, milky substance associated with semen. Considered to be an aphrodisiac, the lettuce was also believed to help the god,’_ and I quote  _: ‘perform the sexual act untiringly’._ ”

On the one hand, Anders was enthralled by the reading session. Listening to Mitchell’s manly voice speaking about phallic symbols with that accent, and also about ‘performing the sexual act untiringly’; all of it was quite endearing in a lewd kind of way.

On the other hand, it was incredibly entertaining, because for someone like Anders who knew Norse gods still existed in mortal vessels, it opened a whole new avenue of thoughts. If Egyptian Gods still walked the Earth like Norse ones did, it meant that somewhere, there was a poor guy obsessed with lettuce, who was the unfortunate incarnation of Min. Anders imagined him as a creepy dude in a beige trench coat, showing himself off in a park to terrorized walkers who could not understand they were being blessed by the divine sight.

And no matter how interesting was the aforementioned sensual aspect of that read, Anders couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He laughed until he cried and his ribs hurt.  

Mitchell waited patiently until Anders could breathe properly again before he asked: “do you want me to stop?”

“No! I don’t want you to stop!”

Mitchell read him tales of ancient Egypt for at least an hour, maybe more. Anders couldn’t tell, because at some point, the sound of his voice, along with the rocking of the train, managed to put him to sleep.

 

***

Anders woke up with a start. The sun was rising, Mitchell was gone and so was his luggage.

A rapid check of his phone told Anders the train would be in Aswan’s train station in less than ten minutes. Somehow, his alarm had failed to ring.

He hurried to pack his own things, and, as he did, he found under his suitcase something the Irishman had left behind: ‘Arabic for Dummies’.   

Between two pages of the book, Anders discovered a note.

 

_Anders,_

_For cheap train tickets, try this website: www.misrrailroad.eg_

_For anything else, give me a call._

_68-02-00-28-90_

 

When Anders stepped off the train, he looked around the platform, hoping to find Mitchell in the crowd and thank him for the book… but, much to his disappointment, Mitchell had disappeared for good.

The only thing he had was a phone number on a piece of paper and a language book.

 

***

Three weeks later, Anders was back in Aswan’s train station.

His grumbling stomach pushed him to purchase a bag of crisps from a vendor who only spoke Arabic. Mitchell’s book came in handy, but now, Anders regretted his choice of snack. Barbeque and lime was an unusual flavor his stomach did not exactly agreed with. The crisps made him even thirstier than usual, in a country where he had spent half of his time being thirsty. He sometimes wished he could stock water in his body like a camel, but would probably prefer dying dehydrated than being a hunchback.  

He cracked open a new bottle of water and drained it.

A purchase he didn’t regret, however, was the high-crowned fedora perched on his head. He had sworn nobody would ever see him with a hat on, but the unforgiving Egyptian sun had convinced him otherwise.

He scanned every new person that went through the gate of platform number eight. Nobody sported the curly head and leather jacket he longed to see. Anders had no idea for how long the Irishman planned on staying in Aswan. The probabilities they would return to Cairo on the same exact train were close to none.

Anders had reread the note in the Arabic book so many times. By now he knew the phone number by heart, but he had never mustered the courage to dial it. Why? No excuse sounded good enough for him to make the move. And even if he did; what would he say to Mitchell?  

If he didn’t find the strength to call before he left Egypt, would Mitchell be just another missed opportunity in his life? Perhaps some opportunities are better missed, he thought. Some fantasies are not meant to be acted upon. They lived better in the head of those who imagined them. This way, his encounter with Mitchell would forever stay a nice memory, untainted by the complications of trying to meet again.   

A message in English, broadcasted throughout the station, invited passengers on platform eight to come aboard.

Once in his compartment, Anders placed his luggage in the locker under the bottom bed, leaving the top bunk to an eventual travel companion. He had specifically asked for compartment number twelve, harbouring an absurd faith in destiny he didn’t even believe in.

The train rattled and moved off, like a long serpent that wakes with a spasm through its spine.

Anders was still alone in his cabin.

Through the window, he gazed at the green islands on the Nile and the sail boats.

The woman he was supposed to meet in Aswan didn’t turn out to be a goddess at all. The Johnsons were just as far from finding Frigg as they were before. Somehow, even though it meant he had come all the way here for nothing, his failed mission wasn’t Anders’ biggest regret.  

He put his phone away. The same curse was affecting all trains of the railway company. In this one as well, the ‘free’ WIFI was a fiction. He craved for a cigarette for the first time in three weeks. Not having any, he opted for fresh air instead… as ‘fresh’ as the wind from the Sahara could be.

He moved to the back of the wagon with a purpose, but stopped dead in his tracks when he opened the door. To his utter astonishment, someone was already outside. Not just anybody, but a tall man in skinny black jeans, with windswept curls and gloved hands. Mitchell was playing with his lighter, leaning against the wagon.   

“Good evening,” he said with a soft smile when Anders stepped outside, as if he had always expected him to show up and that none of it was a surprise to him.

It was a true surprise to Anders, however, and for a moment, he remained speechless.   

“You didn’t call me,” Mitchell remarked. It wasn’t a reproach, per say, more like a question.

“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry,” Anders apologized, which was, for him, out of character. “I nearly did, once,” he confessed, “because I couldn’t sleep and I was dying for some fun facts about gods and sacred lettuce.” It was back all at once: this odd familiarity… this warmth.

Mitchell pocketed his lighter. “What kept you from doing it?”

“I was unsure.”

“Unsure of what?”

Anders bit his upper lip.“Unsure of how you felt about me....or about men in general.”

“I see,” Mitchell simply said.  

They both paused and looked at each other for what seemed to be an eternity. Was Mitchell waiting for him to make a move? Anders couldn’t be sure of anything. This man puzzled him so much. But he wanted to know more. In fact, he didn’t just want to know; he wanted to  _experience_ it…  _experience_ everything Mitchell was.

“You forgot something when you left the train,” Anders reminded him.  

“The book? It was a gift. You can keep it.”

“I’m not speaking about the book.”

“What, then?”

“I’m speaking about  _this_.”

No room left for words: Anders decided to take action, and by ‘action’, he meant grabbing Mitchell by the waist of those ridiculous skinny jeans and pull himself up to kiss him.

When their lips met, dry from the sand of the desert, something unexpected happened. Mitchell melted into it and all the tension in his body evaporated. It was for Anders an incredible experience, like holding a melting tree trunk, or something else no one would ever expect to suddenly become so soft and gentle.  

Anders pulled back a little. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No. I don’t want you to stop.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I look forward to your reviews :) 
> 
> Big hugs and thanks to my proofreader: Katyushha. :)


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